Chapter 2: Target, Part 2
745 Words
Thailand
At 'Arrivals', I wait, card clutched in hand: Strohmayer Party.
The crowds throng by, sweeping past; wives and husbands, lovers, and teenage sweethearts meet and embrace. Men smile, shake hands and slap backs, women hug and kiss cheeks. Children, olive-skinned, dark-haired and almond-eyed run to meet smiling oldsters, arms outstretched, shrieking as they run.
Nothing of this feels familiar.
But then, when did anyone come running to me?
My mother, a smile on her lips, laughter in her eyes, hunkering down, arms outstretched as I toddle to her, as fast as short legs will carry me... "Larry, Sweetheart..."
And Him in the background; red-faced, scowling, bleary-eyed.
Enough...
...
...
Ah... there they are...
Six in the group, middle-aged, prosperous and coming to 'party'...
... for a given definition of 'party'.
That's got to be them.
I adjust my cap to just the right angle, brush down the jacket and straighten up, making sure the card is prominent.
The leader of the group is scanning the crowd. His eyes settle on the card and he looks back, jerking his chin at me. He struts across...
Rich...
Arrogant...
Jerk...
"Mr Strohmayer?"
"You the chauffeur?" His voice is a nice mix of accent and condescension.
"I'm here to take you to your lodgings, sir, yes."
"Great." He thumbs to the back of the group where one of them pushes a trolley piled with what looks like baggage for the lot of them. "Cases are back there. You can take us to the car. Limo? As I ordered?"
"Yes, sir. Everything as you ordered. Air conditioning. Drinks in the chiller. Everything for your comfort. If there is anything..."
"Just get us out of this heat." He runs a finger around his collar. "f*****g humidity's got me already. It'd better be everything we were promised. We've paid a lot for this."
I duck my head and copy/paste my best tone of ingratiation. "I think, sir, I can guarantee you the experience of a lifetime."
"Good. Paid a fuckin' fortune for this. I want my money's worth."
In the car - a stretch-limo as ordered; "If there is anything else you want, sirs, or any questions, just..."
"How old are they?" pipes up one. "I'm not looking for some sixteen-year-old claiming to be fourteen. I want the real thing."
"You can choose, sir. Whatever you want. All ages. Both sexes. Local, foreign, Western, Asian, blond, dark. You name it. You'll find it."
"How young?" says one of them. He's got that seedy hue that comes from spending too much time indoors bending over a screen.
Probably d**k-less and can't pull an actual woman...
"As young as you want, sir."
Dickless leans back and sighs. "Great. I want it really tight when I..."
"Alright," snaps Strohmayer. "We don't want to hear it, Frischmann. Whatever you want's gonna be there. Where are we eating?"
"I'm taking you there now, sir. A banquet for six laid on. A mix of traditional Thai and Western dishes as requested. Is there anything..."
"Shut the f**k up and give us some privacy."
"Of course, sir."
That works for me...
I tap the button raising the glass screen behind me, making sure I turn my face from the rear-view so they don't see me smiling.
Ain't the internet wonderful? All those people who, once, would have been so hard to find. Now, in these days of the great and glorious World Wide Web, you locate the right 'social media' on the dark-net and, Hey, Presto...
I turn off the main highway and down the track through the rainforest.
"What kind of hotel is this?" spouts one. His voice echoes through the intercom, tinny and reedy. I'm not sure how much of the tone is his own voice and how much the connection, but...
"Obviously sirs, even here, we have to be discreet. You understand that technically this is illegal, regardless of the realities and the consent of the children involved."
"They have consented, have they?" It's the runt who was pushing the baggage trolley when I met them.
"Or their parents have consented. Often, the children are supporting older members of their families through the work."
One of them discovers the drinks cabinet, starts splashing gin and tonic, malt and whatever else. It doesn't matter which they choose. There's enough Zolpidem in any of the bottles to incapacitate the drinkers.
As they clink glasses and exchange brags, I knock down the security lock. None of them notices.
- Writer
